Nine O'clock On A Saturday
by Storiesfromthebluebox
Summary: Some time after their time as students, Vyvyan and Rick became drinking buddies, then a comedy duo, then lifelong friends. But death has parted them, and Vyvyan, now well in his forties, reminisces.


A tribute to Rik and Ade's friendship and partnership and the end of their era.

Even if this is inspired by Rik's death, the story, the characters and the situations of these characters are all fiction.

* * *

><p>He smokes a last cigarette before going inside, sitting on the edge of the van. They just unloaded all of the instruments and his bandmates are setting them up inside.<p>

"Twenty minutes, Vyvyan", says Peter, the drummer. He wears a shirt with 'The Riot' on it. They used to be called Punk Terrorists, but as they got older, (he's well into his fifties now) and started to add some softer songs to their repertoire, they decided to let go of that name.

He blows out a few smoke circles into the night sky. "Almost done. I'll be right there".

"You feeling all right, mate?" Peter asks.

"I'm fine, thanks", Vyvyan answers. "Just having a moment of piece and quiet, you know".

Peter smiles. "Yeah, yeah". He already seems a bit tipsy. "All right, see you in a minute". He gives him a slap on the shoulder, and walks back into the back door of the pub. When he's smoked up his cigarette, he flips it away, grabs his guitar and puts his harmonica in his pocket. Time to roll.

_This place looks familiar,_ he thinks, as he enters the pub. He recognizes this hall, the small porch vault with the brown wood and the graceful, old-fashioned pattern carved into it. The pub owner is someone he has never seen in his life, but he has most certainly been here before. Then he remembers: he performed here with Rick, multiple times. How long was it? Six years? Ten? He doesn't remember, but he can picture them walking here. It shouldn't surprise him, in their times of performing together, Rick and him had climbed the stage in almost every club and pub in London. But the feeling this pub gives him makes him a little nostalgic. It's strange coming back here as the lead singer of a band instead of one half of a comedy duo.

Vyvyan had never aspired a life on stage whatsoever. It had all been a coincidence, really. One night - a lifetime ago, when they had been in their mid-twenties, he and Rick went out. It had been a night just like any other night. They would start out with a few drinks in their favourite pub, wander around the streets and end up somewhere in a shady, dusty bar having long conversations neither of them really remembered in the morning. Maybe they would miss the bus and have to walk home swearing while the sky was already getting lighter – but not light enough for there to be buses.

This had become somewhat of a tradition to them ever since they and Mike and Neil had moved out of their student house. Rick had just called him up one day asking if he wanted to have a drink with him, and Vyvyan had said sure. Why not, he was bored anyway. It had turned out a surprisingly fun evening, especially since he had finally been able to convince Rick to drink alcohol. Spending time with Rick when they were both drunk wasn't half-bad. So he called him himself the next week. And the next, until it became a habit.

That night had been one out of many. They were sitting somewhere in the back of some bar, maybe around one in the morning and Rick was having one of his rants.

"Listen, Vyvyan!", Rick slurred, leaning a bit closer, "if you don't join the _wevolution_, there's nothing I can do to save you! Because Thatcher's going to take over the world, and make everyone listen to conservative music like Genesis! And place a big statue of her bottom! And everyone's going to worship her like the FASCISTS that they are!"

"Oh shut up, you hysterical imbecile!", Vyvyan responded, rolling his eyes.

They went on like this for a while, until they noticed the people around him had stopped talking. Everyone was looking at them and laughing, even the barman.

"What?" Vyvyan had asked. But the barman was laughing too hard to answer. Afterwards, he had come to them and said: "Listen, if you boys want to come back next week and do the same thing on stage… we would gladly have you. I could even pay ya".

Rick's eyes lit up, and he'd already accepted before Vyvyan had processed what they just had been asked. He wasn't so sure.

"A _comedy_ show? With _you?"_ This was the most absurd idea he had ever heard.

"Just picture it!", he wrapped an arm around his shoulder. "We will be stars! The people will love us, chanting our names and taking off their underwear as we climb on stage!"

"What, even the men?" Vyvyan said with a repulsed face.

"Well to be quite fair Vyvyan, I don't think even heterosexual men could resist _this",_ Rick said, pointing at his own body. "But who cares! We'll have thousands of birds to choose from! Don't you see Vyvyan? We could be rich!"

They never became very rich, but they did have a few years of success. For some reason, people seemed to think they were funny. And they loved it: they loved shouting rude things and dressing up in ridiculous outfits. They also liked the sudden female attention. Despite having had quite a few flings, they never got into anything serious with anyone. They didn't have time nor space for anyone else in their lives, and they didn't need it.

That had been his life until two years ago, when Rick had passed away suddenly. A stroke killed him in his sleep. Vyvyan hadn't returned to comedy since. It didn't seem right. He couldn't put on the same act without Rick. It was impossible. But he missed the stage, so he got more serious about the amateur punk band he'd been playing with for a few years.

And now here he is, with his band. They set up the instruments and he plugs in his guitar, a shrill beep filling the room as he does so. A crowd of approximately twenty people is present in the room, sipping from their drinks and standing around watching as they do their soundcheck. There's quite a lot of young people at the front, and some older people sitting at the bar in the back.

Over the years, The Riot had built up a significant repertoire of original songs, most of which are soft-punk songs, but tonight, they're opening with a cover. When he brings his mouth to the harmonica and starts playing the familiar tune, he notices an immediate shift in the mood. The young people cheer as they recognize it, and the people at the back sit up a little bit straighter.

"_It's nine o'clock on a Saturday…" _he starts to sing. _"The regular crowd shuffles in… There's an old man sitting next to me. Makin' love to his tonic and gin... He says, Son, can you play me a memory, I'm not really sure how it goes. But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete, when I wore a younger men's clothes."  
><em>

As he sings, he looks at the faces of the group of young people at the front. Most of them are smiling, listening to his words, moved by the song. Maybe they are remembering and thinking about things in their own lives, thinking about people far away from here, or maybe they're just happy to be here. They're still at the age where seeing a band can be an intense experience, the age where they believe this night could hold something special for them, waiting for them somewhere in a bar or a street corner, or maybe in a song.

"_Sing us a song, you're the piano man,_  
><em>Sing us a song tonight<em>

_Well, we're all in the mood for a melody_  
><em>And you've got us feelin' alright"<em>

There used to be a time, right after Rick had died, when performing was difficult for him. He sang the words, and he looked at the audience, and he just wanted to scream at all of them. How could they all be enjoying their lives, dressed up in their nice outfits having a good time, when Rick was dead? It was a logic his brain failed to understand. His best friend was lying in the ground, and yet here they were, pretending as if the world hadn't just changed forever. It made him furious, but most of all, it made him feel helpless.

That is all in the past now. He is quite happy these days. He doesn't have a wife or any children, but he has his friends and his music. He doesn't think about Rick so much, but he had been such a big part of his life that it was at least once a week he said something like: "You know, Rick always said…" or: "One time, me and Rick…". It had become normal to talk about him without feeling sad.

Rick had always been very concerned with being remembered. Sometimes it seemed to be the only thing he lived for: to leave behind a mark, to live on even after he was gone. Sometimes, when he was drunk enough during the countless times they'd been drinking together after a show, he started talking about it.

"Do you think they'll remember me? You know, in the future, when I'm dead?" Rick asked one summer evening, when they were lying in the grass next to their van.

"Nah", Vyvyan had answered, eyes closed. He was drunk and the ground was moving. He thought he was going to vomit.

"No but, weally", Rick continued. "I just don't want to be just one of millions, or some pathetic loner. I want people to talk about me for _genewations._ I want to be an inspiration: the Peoples Poet, the biggest entertainer that ever lived!"

"You ARE one of millions and a pathetic loner, Rick! What's the bloody point of being remembered? We're all going to die anyway!"

"Yes but… what's the point of living if no one remembers you anyway?"

"Rick, if you don't shut up now, I'm going to beat you over the head with this". And he held up his bottle of vodka.

These kind of discussions could be endless and pointless. But somewhere along the way, they stopped having them. They got older, and they spent more and more of their evenings in the faint kitchen light in Rick's small apartment, playing cards and smoking. In the summer the window was open, in winter the stove and radio were on. It was on these evenings there was something in Rick's smile that told him he had gotten at peace with himself. So he knew it was good.

So he likes to think Rick died fearlessly. He doesn't think he even realized it when it happened, but he just likes to imagine that when he was still alive, he knew that even if he wasn't legend that would be talked about for generations, he was deeply loved.

"_It's a pretty good crowd for a Saturday_  
><em>And the manager gives me a smile<em>  
><em>'Cause he knows that it's me they've been comin' to see<br>To forget about life for a while"._

The audience applauds loudly after the song's finished. The young people raise their glasses to him. He smiles and bows, then picks up his guitar to start playing some more rocking songs.

After the gig, and all of his band mates are having a drink, he walks outside to have a smoke by himself. Two young guys are sitting against the wall a few feet away from him. They're smoking and laughing about something very hard. He looks up at the sky. It's cloudy. Not a star to be seen. He's never believed in an afterlife or that dead people can somehow magically hear you if you talk to the sky, but if he could…. If he could, he would say: Sometimes I do miss you, you bastard. But it's all right. The world is as it should be. It's all good, my friend.


End file.
